By Chelsea Drown 
They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I found that to be most true when my grandma passed.
Like many grandmas, she was the best. She was kind and tender, but firm when she needed to be. She gave her time freely and used her baking talent to bless others. She had little and needed little, yet she had a way of drawing people together.
There wasn’t a day I can remember when someone didn’t call her or stop by. She seemed to have all the answers and somehow knew how to fix almost any problem.
In the warmer months, we gathered at the campground. Those were the days everyone looked forward to. We fished, played games, and ate far too much food. Kids rode their bikes, ran off to the park, and cast fishing lines into the water while laughter filled the air.
I still remember walking down the rocky bank toward the water, watching each step carefully, half afraid a snake might pop out from between the stones. The air always carried that familiar fishy smell from the water. Our fingers were sticky and dirty from warm bait, and we didn’t think twice about it. There was always a burst of excitement when someone’s line started to move. Every fish we caught felt like a small victory, and we celebrated each one like it was the biggest catch in the lake.
Those moments felt endless at the time.
The colder months brought a different kind of joy. After long days spent sledding across the street from her house—down what seemed like the biggest hill in the world—we would come back inside freezing and worn out, our cheeks red from the cold and our clothes damp from snow.
Waiting for us was always something warm.
Hot cocoa. Homemade potato soup. Grilled cheese sandwiches fresh off the pan.
We would crowd around her living room and kitchen, all the kids trying to squeeze together as close as we could to her electric fireplace. Slowly, the warmth would return to our hands and faces while we laughed about the sled runs and who wiped out the hardest. Before long, we were ready to bundle back up and head outside again.
Those simple days and nights felt like they would last forever.
But nothing in this world lasts forever.
Sickness came, more than once. The years that followed slowly took away her ability to do things for herself and to remain in the home she loved. Sadness arrived, along with heartache.
Tensions began to build over things that now seem so small.
The gatherings became fewer. When they did happen, they felt different—smaller, quieter, and sometimes uncomfortable. What once felt like the happiest moments began to feel like walking on eggshells around certain people.
Still, we came when we could, because we wanted to be there for her.
As time passed and the hope of healing faded, the moment eventually came when we had to say goodbye, at least for now.
She was the glue.
After she was gone, things were never quite the same. We don’t gather like we used to. Many people no longer speak or acknowledge what once was.
As an adult now, it’s heartbreaking to see, especially remembering those days as a child when everything felt whole.
Now all that remains are stories—stories I tell my own children about a woman they never had the chance to meet. A woman who loved deeply, gave freely, and somehow held everyone together.
And now that I’m older, I realize something I didn’t understand as a child: the person who quietly keeps a family connected is often the one whose absence is felt the most.
by Shannon Armenis 
by Sandy Brannan 
